


Charm Offensive

by FunkyinFishnet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Relationships, F/M, Family, First Meetings, Friendship, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 06:44:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1500653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary has been expecting the smart black car that whisks her away for a meeting with Sherlock's brother. She hopes that he's going to offer her more money than he offered John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Charm Offensive

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between episodes 3x01 and 3x02.

 

 

Mary was surprised it took so long, but finally, almost a week after her first contact with Sherlock Holmes, an expensive-looking black car pulled up beside her as she was walking home from work. She had her phone in hand already and quickly texted John – _being kidnapped by Sherlock's brother. Won't be long._ One of the back windows rolled down to reveal a beautiful young woman dressed all in black. Mary snapped a quick camera-phone picture.

 

“Miss Morstan...”

 

“Oh, he's not going to do the bit with the payphone? Shame. That was my favourite.”

 

The woman blinked and unlocked the car’s back doors. “Please.”

 

Mary slid in and smiled when her phone buzzed with an incoming message – _Take his money. Don't agree to anything – SH_. Her smile became a grin. Would Sherlock turn up if he got bored? According to John and Mrs Hudson, the Holmes brothers together in the same room were...quite something. She couldn't wait.

 

That reminded her. “Could you ask Mr Holmes to choose somewhere with decent heating? I've been fighting back a cold for a week.”

 

The young lady blinked again. Anthea, wasn't it? Only John had said that that wasn't actually her real name and Mary had undertaken extensive research after meeting John, because old habits died very hard and kept her alive and safe. She'd uncovered four other monikers used previously by the woman now calling herself Anthea. _Very_ good work. Anthea suited her best though. Whoever she was, she used her Blackberry at lightning speed and her eyes didn't miss anything. Mary enjoyed the car's warm plush seating and the general air of expense, John hadn't been lying when he'd described Mycroft as only knowing how to live amongst the finer things in life.

 

The journey wasn't long; they pulled up in front of a nondescript office that was apparently for sale. Anthea unlocked the car door and nodded for Mary to get out. Mary laughed softly, a sort of delighted nostalgia running through her. This brought back memories of watching Sunday night thrillers with Michael and Vicky while Simon was out on a hospital placement shift. It also brought back memories of another life and so many rendezvouses.

 

“You'll be returning me after?” she checked and at Anthea's nod, continued. “Claim that overtime, there's got to be some perks, besides the tailored wardrobe and ambassador's car I mean.”

 

Anthea might have smiled as Mary got out and took a picture of the office exterior for John and Sherlock. She wouldn't send it to them just yet. She sank her hands into her coat's pockets and walked purposefully inside. She didn't have to look far, the place was empty of furniture but it was pleasantly warm and there was a man waiting in the room next to the lobby. He was wearing a very nice suit and had one hand braced against the curved handle of a rolled-up umbrella that matched the suit perfectly. Very swish. Was there anything of Sherlock in his face? Around the cheekbones maybe, definitely in the eyes. Mycroft Holmes, the man with more clearance than God and who was always very concerned about his brother.

 

How much had he researched her when she’d started dating John? How much did he know about her other life? Mary wasn’t very worried, there were some people that Mycroft Holmes didn’t actually have in his grasp and they were very good at what they did.

 

Mary's phone buzzed again, a message from John this time - _Chinese takeaway will get cold. Don't have too much fun, please :)_ He wasn't saying it, but his worry was there between the words. Mary smiled softly and rubbed a finger against her engagement ring.

 

She pocketed the phone, took careful note of the exits and sightlines, and then turned her attention to the man waiting patiently. He smiled thinly, it wasn't exactly welcoming but it seemed to come more easily to him than a lot of Sherlock's efforts. Mary smiled back, she wondered how much she'd be offered.

 

“Is the good doctor worrying already, Miss Morstan?”

 

His voice was smooth, definitely the voice of a politician, a diplomat, someone used to greasing the wheels. It was so different to Sherlock's blunt-who-cares communication that Mary laughed a little. Mycroft raised an offended eyebrow, causing her to laugh a little harder.

 

“I'm sorry; you just...God, you and Sherlock are almost unalike, aren't you? When it gets down to it?”

 

There was an arch of surprise in Mycroft's expression and something changed in his posture. Mary had done that, she was fairly certain that like Sherlock, this Holmes wasn't surprised very often.

 

“So...” she continued brightly. “How does this work?”

 

Mycroft adjusted his position and looked pleasingly wrong-footed. Mary was tempted to take a photo to mark the moment but settled instead for memorising his expression. Both Sherlock and John would appreciate a description later.

 

“Only supper's waiting for me and as you said, my doctor worries.”

 

There was a pause as Mycroft considered her. Mary smiled back, standing her ground. Was she having too much fun? Probably. But how often would she get to unnerve a Holmes?

 

“Dr Watson is well after his recent...disappearance?”

 

Mary's smile lessened as vivid memories flooded her – the skip-coded text message, Sherlock borrowing a motorbike without taking 'no' for an answer, the bonfire, oh God, the bonfire with John buried inside it. How could anybody be _well_ after that? John still held her closer than usual at night and he twitched in his sleep. Her finger rubbed against her ring again. John was strong, he had Sherlock and he had her.

 

“He's been better.”

 

“You acquitted yourself well, I hear.”

 

“So did your brother.”

 

Mycroft nodded and looked somewhat perturbed, not a reassuring look considering the subject. “We are endeavouring to uncover who was behind the attack but so far, unfortunately, no news is forthcoming.”

 

Mary quirked a hard little smile, because she'd seen the papers and pictures plastered all over Sherlock's wall. She’d put out cautious feelers herself to try and find the culprit, but there’d been no joy so far. Sherlock though, between cases he was working hard to discover who had tried to spectacularly do away with John, a pastime that he apparently shared with Mycroft. Sherlock was doing it because he cared; Mycroft was probably doing it because he knew that this was someone attempting to get at Sherlock, because he cared too. Two Holmes, caring in their own particular way, especially when it really counted. Mary and John were very lucky.

 

“So, how much?” she asked, snapping back to the present. She tapped a finger to her watch. “I'm on a schedule and your brother's waiting.”

 

Mycroft looked like he'd sucked a lemon. “Your doctor has been telling you stories.”

 

“I hope you’re going to offer me more than you offered him.”

 

Mycroft's eyebrows were working again. “Your regard for yourself is...admirable.”

 

“It's mercenary really, I'm planning a wedding.”

 

There was silence after that and Mary's phone buzzed again which meant that probably... “Any minute now...”

 

Mycroft's phone vibrated discreetly in his jacket pocket. The sour-lemon look was back and he almost rolled his eyes as he retrieved his phone. He only glanced at it briefly.

 

“Do you know, I believe he's gotten worse the older he gets.”

 

The assessment was over. Mary reached for her own phone. Either Mycroft was playing the long game or he really didn’t know who she’d been before donning Mary Morstan. Either scenario was fine with Mary; she played a very good game too, long or otherwise.

 

“Look on the bright side; he could still want to be a pirate.”

 

Mycroft's expression moved minimally, but Mary, thanks to time recently spent studying Holmesian facial tics, decided that he was probably a little taken aback. Another moment to savour. She smiled brilliantly as she read John's message – _seriously, how much is he offering?_ – and sent one of her own to Sherlock – _taken care of already, thanks._

 

“I'll be checking my bank account, Mr Holmes.”

 

“I'm sure you'll look charming in white lace and roses, Miss Morstan.”

 

Mary's expression was almost amused but was mostly a firm and steel-threaded warning. “And I'm afraid there's no room for any of your employees at the reception.”

 

That was how she left it and there was Anthea, car idling at the curb, silent muscular driver behind the wheel. Mary folded herself in, brushing light rain from her hair. There was a good giddy feeling swirling around inside of her, a feeling that she remembered well and savoured, even more so now.

 

“Baker Street, please.”

 

*

 

There was a light on upstairs. It was a very welcoming sight amongst the darkness and rain. Mary said goodbye to Anthea - “seriously, if you want a drink away from the town car, I'm sure your boss has my number. We can swap stories.” The Baker Street door opened as soon as she reached the pavement. John was wearing a brown jumper and a warm relieved smile. He was definitely the best thing she'd seen all day.

 

Mary stepped easily into his embrace, enjoying the feel of his light stubble against her cheek. “Come on, you couldn't have been all that worried.”

 

But of course he was because of the bonfire mystery still hanging over their heads and he squeezed her a little closer before replying. “You versus Mycroft Holmes? There was never any doubt.”

 

Hand in hand, they made their way upstairs. Sherlock was waiting in the living room, folded and tense like a praying mantis in his armchair. His eyes locked immediately onto Mary and he thrust a steaming mug of tea out like an offering.

 

“Mary, you look well. Tea?”

 

Mary took the mug and sipped it, it was made just the way she liked it. She half-turned to John to check that...yes, he'd made it, good. She turned back to Sherlock with a smile; he had attempted politeness first rather than launching straight into an analysis. He really had made an effort.

 

“I have photos and stories.”

 

Sherlock's face might have lit up. He gestured impatiently for her to sit down opposite him. Mary settled into John's chair, John perching beside her in order to wrap an arm around her. Contact was good, it birthed another wonderful addictive feeling. Mary sipped her tea and smiled.

 

_-the end_


End file.
